


Unwillingly

by AndWeMutate



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Flashbacks, Hand Jobs, M/M, POV First Person, Underage Rape/Non-con, Unwilling Participant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 04:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndWeMutate/pseuds/AndWeMutate
Summary: "It's disgusting, touching him like this. I don't want to touch him. There's only one person I would ever want to touch like this and he's not here. He's miles away. Instead of touching the boy I love, I'm touching a man who has to be twice my age and he's moaning because of what my unwilling hand is doing."Kise recalls a time in his life when he regrets his pretty face and when he felt his ugliest.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written almost three years ago to the day. I hesitate to post this for whatever stupid reason that was, but it's a piece that I am...proud of. I feel like I tend to write my best when the subject matter is questionable. Considering that I don't write in first person all that much, I do like how this one came out.

I'm fourteen and I'm a fairly new model at my agency. I get invited to a party and I'm hesitant to go at first, but the other models in my agency tell me that they'll look out for me and one of my sisters seems to think it's a good idea so I go. 

I'm trying to interact with as many people as I can, offering them smiles and trying to appear personable, hireable. While I'm making my rounds, a man motions me over and he smiles. He asks me if I'm a model. I've never seen this man before in my life but he seems like an alright sort of guy. I nod and smile, being the charming self that I know I should be at these parties. If I were being honest, I didn't really want to be here but my agency insisted. It's good to mingle, they said, get to know people who could potentially hire you and I guess it made sense. I was just exhausted from this afternoon's practice. Coach has been pushing us a little harder than usual because of the upcoming tournament. My legs ache and my shoulders are a bit tense but I still come to the party because my manager insisted. 

The man who's talking to me is a little taller than me, but only by a few inches, and he looks dignified. Neat haircut, clean shaven, dark eyes, suit and tie, all of that. He's handsome and he's well-spoken. It's no wonder he's here tonight. He smiles back at me and tells me I'm beautiful. I've heard this so many times before, ever since I started modeling, but I thank him all the same. I do appreciate the compliments, but I know I must appear both humble and appreciative at the same time.

As much as I love what I do, I sometimes enjoy basketball more. It's less complicated. 

The music is blaring but I'm somehow able to make out what the man says next. He asks me if I'd like to go somewhere and talk. I'm assuming it's about the possibility of a job and I, without hesitation, accept his offer. I'm already wondering what kind of things we're going to talk about, what kind of shoots I could be a part of. I enjoy modeling and I'm always eager to dress myself up and play the role assigned. I can't wipe the smile off of my face as he leads me out of the overly crowded party and into a room with no people, no loud music, no blaring lights. It's quiet. We're alone. 

Still, I think nothing of it. When booking a job, speaking with a future employer is important and if he wanted to do so privately, who was I to deny him? I'm excited but I'm also curious. 

He offers me a seat on the couch, the most extravagant piece in the room. The party's being held at the home of one of the older models at my agency and he has an eye for this sort of thing. It's a comfortable couch, I come to find out, as I sit down, joined by the man. I still don't even know his name. I don't even think to ask. He'll hand me a business card at some point, they all do, so I'll figure it out then. Instead, he reaches over and takes my hand. He tells me I'm beautiful again, staring into my eyes, and I smile, thanking him for such a sincere compliment. The way he's holding my hand is a little too familiar and it's slightly unnerving but I don't pull away. He starts stroking my fingers in slow, even movements and a chill races down the length of my spine.

The man shifts a little closer now, asking where I see my modeling career going. He asks if I'm curious about advancing my career and broadening my horizons. Of course I am, I say. I tell him I love modeling and that I'm always interested in new things. That makes him smile a little wider and hold my hand a little tighter.

I can hear the thump of the music through the walls of the room, but it doesn't serve as a suitable distraction. I can't distract myself with the lyrics of the song or the beat of the music. My entire attention is focused on him and his entire attention is focused on me. It makes me uneasy. 

He asks me again about advancing my career and it hits me then that the way he's wording that statement is making me very uncomfortable. I chuckle nervously and try to tug my hand away, but he's holding it tighter now. That nervousness becomes more insistent. How far would you go, he asks, to make yourself a star?

My popularity isn't as impressive as the senior models in the agency but I have a pretty steady fan base. I appreciate each and every fan and sure, I'd like to be more popular but I'm not sure if that's what the man means. I'm not sure what he means anymore. I want to leave. I want to get up and thank him and return to the party. That's what I want. 

But he wants something different. He guides the hand he's holding and places it over his crotch. I freeze and again, I try to pull away. What is he doing, I ask, but I stutter and stammer. I'm not a threat to him so he doesn't feel compelled to let my hand go or answer my question. He forces my fingers to press against his clothed lower region and I cringe. I...can feel him. He's half-hard. 

How far would I go, he asks again in a lower, more dangerous tone. 

I try to pull away, hoping that would be enough of an answer but he grits his teeth and squeezes my hand even harder. It hurts. If I'm not willing to go far, he says, then I shouldn't bother at all. The man begins to move my hand over his growing arousal and I look away. I can feel him through his pants and as seconds pass, he's getting harder and harder. The man moans and I feel like I could throw up. I'm panicking but he won't let go and I'm too scared to fight back.

For a split second, I half-hope someone will come through that door and break us apart. I hope that I'll be saved, but the man continues to force my palm against his clothed arousal and I'm losing hope. 

It's disgusting, touching him like this. I don't want to touch him. There's only one person I would ever want to touch like this and he's not here. He's miles away. Instead of touching the boy I love, I'm touching a man who has to be twice my age and he's moaning because of what my unwilling hand is doing. 

Please, I say. Stop. He doesn't let go. Instead, he uses his free hand to...unzip his pants. Now, I'm terrified. I try to pull away once more, this time with all of the strength I can muster, but it doesn't even faze him. I'm panting and I'm trying to think of some way to distance myself from this man but he's just...he's not letting go. His pants are unzipped and he guides my hand to his erection. I choke on another attempt to ask him, rather beg him, to let go. I’m crying now. I hadn’t realized it but tears are rolling down my face. He doesn’t care through.

He forces my fingers to close around his erection and he growls at me to jerk him off. I shake my head and close my eyes and I beg him to just let me go, to let me leave. I don’t want to do this. But he doesn’t care. He takes his free hand and grabs my chin in a very rough motion and he threatens me. He tells me that if I don’t do this, he’ll ruin my career. He’ll tell everyone that I’m a filthy whore, that I begged him to fuck me. Even if it’s not true, who would believe me? I’m a fairly new model. I’m a kid. They’d never believe me. He has power over me and I’m scared out of my mind. 

Do it, he says, unamused by my tears or my unwillingness to do as he’s asking. I’m looking at him and I’m no longer seeing the well-dressed man that I saw earlier. I’m seeing a monster, a terrifying creature that’s making me do something that I don’t want to do. But, because I love modeling, because my sister worked so hard to get me this job, this chance, I begin to stroke him. His naked shaft, my bare hand. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

He moans as I jerk him off and he tells me I’m beautiful. He tells me that I have a bright future in this industry and it’s hard for me to hide the fact that my hand is shaking. As I stroke him, he’s playing with my hair and I want to pull away. I want to run as far away as I can. I want to call out for someone to save me but the only name that’s coming to mind is someone who isn’t here, someone who would be disgusted to see me the way I am. I can’t bear to think about him now.

Faster, he growls and I obey hesitantly. I’m stroking him faster now and he just keeps moaning. I wish the music was louder because I can hear him moaning and it’s making me nauseous. He threads his fingers through my hair and tells me how good it feels. I don’t want to know. I close my eyes and try to pretend I’m not here but it’s not working. I feel him pulsating in my hand. I hear him moaning in my head. No matter how much I try, it’s not going away. 

He doesn’t last too much longer and I’m thankful. The man starts to breathe harder and harder and his body suddenly freezes and jolts. He spills himself on my hand and my wrist and I feel sicker. The entire time, I cried and I’m crying harder now that he came. He’s nowhere near amused but he’s satisfied. He takes a tissue from the box on the coffee table and he wipes my hand off, telling me that I look beautiful when I cry. I don’t look at him. I can’t. He returns his arousal to his pants and zips them up. I’m still on the couch, the hand that jerked him off laying motionless at my side.

The man looks down at me and he says that he’d love to do this again sometime. I feel empty. He doesn’t leave a business card. I never learned his name. Instead, he leaves me with a hollow feeling as he walks out of the room. When he opens the door, music floods into the room but it’s quickly cut off when he closes the door again.

For a long time, I don’t move. I’m trying to figure out how to stop crying but I can’t. My makeup is probably screwed up and he touched my hair, so it’s probably just as messy. I probably look disgusting. So, I stay in that room for a long time and look in the mirror on the wall and I try to fix myself up. I try to make myself beautiful again. It’s hard because I feel ugly. 

I finally leave the room but I immediately find the coworker I came with and I ask him if we can leave. He sighs and rolls his eyes, probably thinking of me as an annoying younger brother, but he says that he wanted to leave soon anyway. I’m thankful but also terrified because that man could still be here, waiting for me to be alone again. I stay close to my coworker until he says his goodbyes and we leave.

I never go to another party again. I’m too afraid. For a while, it’s hard for me to look at the boy I’m desperately in love with because in some twisted way, I feel like I’ve betrayed him. I can’t look into his blue eyes without feeling ill. So, for a long time, I don’t. I don’t look at him and I hardly speak to him. This keeps up until I start to feel normal again. 

I don't feel completely normal for a long, long time but I put on a smile like it’s makeup. Perfect, flawless, beautiful. My tears ruin my makeup so I try not to cry. I try to forget because I don’t know what else to do.

\----------

 

Rubbing the back of his neck, Kise looks up to Touou’s ace. Telling him this story was insanely difficult and it made him feel just as sick as he did the day it happened but it’s something that he owes to Aomine. He loves him more than he can explain and if he’s going to give himself to Aomine, then he has to tell him. The blond wanted, more than anything, to be honest with the boy he loved, no matter how much it hurt.


End file.
